


They Who Serve

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Series: The Cane and the Whip [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Barricade Night, Bondage, Desk Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, Is this AU or isn't it, M/M, Morning After, Punishment, Rough Sex, Spit As Lube, Ties & Cravats, sex as punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-29 00:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11429040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: Henri Gisquet, Prefect of Police, is having an eventful Barricade Night. Private citizen André-Joseph Chabouillet is determined to make matters even more eventful.





	They Who Serve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/gifts).



> Thank you to Firestorm717 and Esteven for the beta!

The summer evening was oppressively warm, even at this late hour. The streets were deserted, strewn with libellous pamphlets and litter and broken glass which no one had had the time or the inclination to clear. The unnatural silence was punctuated with sounds of far-off gunfire, as well as with men's voices, raised both in command and in terror. 

On a day such as this one had been and a night as this one was shaping up to be, Chabouillet was glad he no longer wore the uniform. Anonymous in his blue summer coat, he walked the streets of Paris like any unremarkable private citizen of indeterminate rank and profession. 

It suited him to maintain a covert presence at this time. Paris had been a fomenting morass of discontent, a tinder-box in more ways than one, with republican conspirators using the cholera epidemic and the growing public dissatisfaction with the constitutional monarchy to sow seeds of distrust in the institutions of the State. These malefactors were Parisian workers and local youth and students at the École Polytechnique, indistinguishable from other law-abiding citizenry; those who were tasked to serve the public order experienced challenges in identifying offenders and taking preventive action. 

A casual observer might have remarked that it had been no time to retire from the Prefecture of Police in Paris, after a career spanning two decades and ten different Prefects of Police. But Chabouillet had always had a sense for the weather patterns in the political landscape, and he had seen the way the wind was headed. Better to fade unobtrusively from the annals of history than remain to see out his third decade at the Prefecture -- when real revolution would be at hand, not this pretend one, which had come to a premature flowering, and would hopefully reach an abrupt end.

It would not be long now. He had received dispatches at his home in the Marais: it seemed that Louis-Philippe had returned to Paris this morning from Saint-Cloud, met his ministers and generals at the Tuileries and openly declared a state of siege. By the end of the day, the majority of the barricades had been overtaken, and the last hold-outs at Rue Saint-Martin, Saint-Merry and at the Chanvrerie were being brought to heel.

Chabouillet had stayed to have dinner with Marie-Sophie and the children at No. 226. It would not do to disrupt the domestic harmony of their household at this unsettled time, particularly when they were making arrangements to move from Saint-Martin to their other residence at cul-de-sac S.-Claude-Montmartre. But Marie had seen the look in his eye, and after the servants had cleared the Limoges trays and silver she had leaned across the table to address him.

"I should give you advance notice that the new shipment from England has arrived, and tonight I intend to welcome Mr. Washington Irving to my bedchamber. How ever will you occupy yourself in the meantime?"

He had clasped her white hand. Her eyes had been dark and knowing, for she could see the restlessness that simmered under his equanimity. "I thought I might take the air and see what is transpiring at the Rue de Jerusalem."

"I doubt there will be more trouble, but do make sure your pistol is loaded," she'd said. 

"It always is," he responded, and she had smiled with all her teeth. The double entendre hadn't been particularly proper, but twice-married book-keeper Marie-Sophie Pagnest had never been the soul of propriety.

  
  
  
  


Thus, with his wife's blessing, Chabouillet had taken to streets that were unusually hot and unnaturally quiet, his boot-heels overly loud on the old cobblestones. 

His firearm was a familiar weight in the pocket of his coat. Even more familiar was the weight of his cane, which he had had made the year he had turned in his officer's commission, and it had never since been far from his side.

Chabouillet was not a man given to speculative fancies. But as he walked toward the Île de la Cité and the Cathédrale Notre-Dame, and the safety that had been purchased by 40,000 troops under the command of the Comte de Lobau, he spared an idle thought as to how his life might have transpired had he not left the military. 

After all, he was not much younger than Comte Mouton, had served with as much distinction in the later campaigns of the Revolutionary Wars, and had even caught the eye and patronage of Pierre-Antoine Dupont, the dashing général de division who had served Napoleon with distinction in the Danube in 1805. Dupont had held command of Chabouillet's division in the Peninsular War, and had led them into Spain in 1808 to occupy Madrid. 

Dupont had not been Chabouillet's first patron, but he had been the first to teach him about pain and pleasure and obedience, and every protégé Chabouillet had trained to hand thereafter had been a beneficiary of the General's military rigour.

Of course, Chabouillet would not have remained in service after his brother had been killed in Seville. François had joined him in enlisting in order to escape their father's strictness; he had been the one person Chabouillet had never managed to persuade to do anything. After Chabouillet had resigned from his commission, the French forces had embarked upon a disastrous campaign in Andalusia, and Dupont had been injured and disgraced. 

Chabouillet had seen that wind coming, as well. It had been a considered decision to return to Paris, to avail himself of a different kind of service with the Prefecture of Police and its then Prefect, Étienne-Denis Pasquier. 

  
  
  
  


He walked briskly now, across the Pont Notre-Dame. The river was restless that night, the large water-pump driving currents in that square between the Quai de la Megisserie and the Quai aux Fleurs. 

Chabouillet had walked this path through the Île de la Cité every day of the last twenty years. Briskly, he mounted the stone steps of the Prefecture building and was waved through the arched doors by the uniformed guards. In these troubled times, the building was a fortress of calm and order; it would always open its doors to one of its own.

The Prefecture’s halls were austere, having withstood the passage of time and kings and lieutenants-généraux of police. They had been standing when Chabouillet had taken up his post in 1810, and would remain thus long after he had retired to his family estate in the South.

At this hour the halls were quiet, devoid of the usual stream of uniformed men and civil servants in the Prefecture's passageways. Post-retirement, Chabouillet still retained a minor role in the First Bureau which came with a small office in the side wing, but he had no wish to visit his old colleagues and hapless successor. Instead, on a whim, he ascended the main staircase, and headed for the well-appointed offices of the present Prefect of Police in Paris.

At this hour, the Prefect's staff had retired for the evening; only Pinel, the Prefect's most junior secrétaire intime, remained in the antechamber to serve his master.

"But he has been very pressed all day, M. le Secrétaire," the boy from Toulouse said, seriously. "He had to go to the Tuileries this morning, and has been in briefings ever since with different people, trying to keep abreast of the efforts to quell the insurgency. I hope you do not have taxing news for him!"

"I do not intend to tax him overly, Nicolas," Chabouillet said, eyeing the earnest, comely youngster, whose innocence had always seemed out of place in the complex hierarchies of the Prefecture. "And, you'll remember, I am no longer the Secretary of the First Bureau, so there is no need to address me as such."

Pinel put a slender hand to his forehead. "Forgive me, M. Chabouillet. It is just, you have always been here as such, and so I keep forgetting."

Chabouillet was aware that innocence and beauty could compel a relaxing of the most guarded strictures. "Is M. Gisquet currently occupied?"

"He is not. Let me announce you, M. le -- I mean, M. Chabouillet. He has not been sleeping well since the funeral; he will be so pleased to see a friendly face."

Chabouillet frowned at this assertion. Casimir Périer, Gisquet's patron, the late President of the Council of Ministers and Minister of Interior, had succumbed to the cholera epidemic in the spring; the funeral had been less than a month ago. If Gisquet was still in a state of mourning, it would impair his dealings with the present insurgency.

He permitted Pinel to take his coat and hat, and then usher him into the new Prefect's presence. 

Chabouillet had been in these lavish offices countless times over the last twenty years. He had seen Prefects come and go; he had served Anglès, God rest him, and Guy Delavau, and the seven prefects that had served since in the tumultuous times after the July Revolution. He had served Anglès in more ways than the traditional, and when Claude Mangin had risen to the position, the young magistrate had been more than happy to serve Chabouillet in his turn, occasionally in this very room.

Chabouillet had not seen Gisquet since Périer's funeral, having retired shortly before it. He now had reason to remark how the loss had affected the new Prefect -- he was a decade younger than Chabouillet, but grief seemed to have lined his brow, and placed shadows under the green eyes. The events of the past two days had also left their mark, for his fair hair was inadequately attended to, and the elegant frock coat seemed to have been slept in. 

"André, what an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to the Prefecture at this ungodly hour, when your duties finally do not insist upon it?"

Chabouillet drawled, "Would you believe my own wife threw me out of the house?"

"You must be failing Marie in your marital duties! Or else she knows your heart is truly here with us." Gisquet got up from behind the ornate gold-leaf desk that he had had re-purposed from the days of the first post-Revolution Prefect, Louis-Nicolas Dubois, and walked over to offer his hand. His jacket might appear rumpled, but there was absolutely nothing objectionable about the dark breeches and boots showing muscular legs and shapely calves. Chabouillet felt his gaze linger, and so did his fingers in the man's firm clasp.

Gisquet waved him to a chair and poured them both a drink -- Armagnac, from a cut-glass tumbler, which he managed deftly with his one hand -- and they raised their glasses to their constitutional monarch. 

The drink was fiery after the day's heat, but private citizen Chabouillet would have no reason not to indulge. He set his cane down at the foot of his chair and leaned back, stretching his legs after the long walk. 

When the glass was drained, he enquired, "How goes the insurgency?"

Gisquet had seated himself on the bevelled edge of his desk. The window behind him framed him, flatteringly, in the light of the setting sun. Chabouillet recalled taking Gisquet's predecessor against this very desk, similar light falling across Saulnier's yielding arse. The memories stirred something in the pit of his stomach, a fire to match the heat of the Armangac, together with regret that he had never had the occasion to entertain Gisquet in similar fashion.

Gisquet said, "I thought you would have heard. It goes slowly but steadily. Tonight I believe the last barricade at St-Merry will fall."

"And the one at the Chanvrerie?"

"I gather that has already been retaken." Gisquet drained his own glass and then turned to look meaningfully at Chabouillet. "Actually, that was the work of your man, Javert."

Chabouillet experienced a sharp sensation, like a blade under his breast-bone. He had released Javert to the Prefect's service, at Gisquet's request and in light of his own plans to retire, but his favourite protégé -- whom he had first encountered as a serious young guard in the bagnes of the south and brought with him to Paris, and kept at his side for seventeen years -- was never far from his thoughts.

He took a moment to ensure his voice was entirely level, that it held the right inflexion of casual enquiry. "How so?"

Gisquet's eyes were opaque. He set his glass down on his desk and said, neutrally, "He went to gather intelligence, and managed to infiltrate the group of rebels who held that barricade."

There was a burning sensation in Chabouillet's throat, the Armagnac a blaze in his gut. He set his own glass down, noticing his hand had started to shake. 

" _'He went ...'_? M. le Préfet, he is well-known in that district, as indeed he is known in wider Paris, beyond just the environs of Rue de Pontoise."

Which, of course, could only mean one thing. 

Chabouillet was aware he had started to breathe more rapidly, felt a different heat that did not come from the brandy threaten to overtake his body. God knew what Gisquet could see in his face.

Gisquet frowned, pursing his red lips. "Nothing gets past you, André. Truly, your successor at the 1st Bureau isn't half of the officer you were. Yes, it was my idea to send Javert to the Chanvrerie. He said his disguise was successful for a space of time, but that one of the urchins recognised him and he was captured."

Chabouillet took a moment to steady himself, to think. _He said_ meant that Javert had at least lived to make a report to the Prefecture. "What else did he say?" 

Gisquet narrowed his eyes, studying Chabouillet's face. "As you might know, this information is classified. Isn't it inconvenient, now that you no longer receive such reports?"

Chabouillet fought down the urge to wring the Prefect's white, cravat-encircled neck. "Henri. For God's sake. I must know."

"Well, then, since you asked so nicely. You are fortunate that I am still so kindly disposed to you, despite your civilian status." Gisquet's gaze raked blatantly up and down Chabouillet's body, in a way that did not make Chabouillet feel at all kindly disposed toward his Prefect. "Your man said that the insurgents had bound him and initially sought to kill him, but that he had been released covertly by one of them. Is that not a fortuitous matter?"

"Indeed." Chabouillet knew his teeth were clenched, as were his fists. That the insurgents had dared lay hands on Javert, that they had sought to kill him... "He was well, when you saw him?"

"Well enough to return to the field. He was most eager to ensure the Chanvrerie barricades had been secured once and for all."

Chabouillet felt the redness rise into his mouth; tasted copper and furious bile.

"You sent him back out there?"

Gisquet took in a sharp breath, drew himself up to his full height. "Of course I did. We need all hands to quell the insurgency. Besides, Javert has always been eager to serve..."

The young captain would have rushed at him, shouting incoherently, would have grasped the man's coat in his fists and smashed his head against the nearest wall. Instead, the former bureau chief seized his towering rage, considered and discarded the use of his cane, then put out his hand to take hold of Gisquet's cravat and used the tall heft of his body to pin Gisquet against the Prefect's ancient desk. 

His voice was as much a weapon: perfectly steady, sharp as steel. "Henri, I did not release Javert into your patronage so that you could pour his life out onto the stones."

Gisquet choked under the fist in his cravat and grappled his good hand in Chabouillet's own cravat, trying to pull himself away, but Chabouillet held him fast. Struggling against Chabouillet's strength, he snapped, "We are called on to sacrifice; each of us has done so! Javert's was for the good of the State, as was yours!"

Chabouillet laughed, no mirth in it. He tightened his hold, pressed his powerful bulk against his Prefect's resisting body. Gisquet was lean and whipcord-strong, but he was no match for Chabouillet's relentless force, his decades of training.

"We have all sacrificed, save for you," Chabouillet remarked. "Oh, wait, that is not fair. I forget your own patron, killed in the line of duty. But not by bullets, by seducing cholera patients! What a noble act." 

Gisquet gasped. His body went slack for a moment, as if Chabouillet had stabbed him in the heart, and then he began to fight back in earnest.

"How dare you! Casimir gave everything he had --"

Chabouillet held him down, grimly. "Then you know how it feels. Your beloved patron, brought low by the masses, and you, unable to save him..."

"Damn you," choked Gisquet; he was a trained swordsman, but he was fighting as blindly as a schoolboy, his free arm throwing wild strikes that glanced off Chabouillet's guard. Chabouillet wondered if Périer had taught young Henri to use as well as to take a blade, as he had himself been taught by the General. If so, Périer ought to have been a less indulgent teacher; Dupont would have never brooked letting one's defences down even in grief.

It was at that time that Chabouillet became aware of his own arousal. He had his hips squared to Gisquet's, pinoning the man's labouring thighs between his own, and he realised that the hammering pulse in his groin was not solely due to the hot blood of the fight.

He felt his lips stretch in a cold smile, and his hand tightened in the knot in Gisquet's cravat. "In the event, I believe further sacrifices are required."

Gisquet's struggles slowed. He would know that Chabouillet's present advantage was insurmountable. Fiercely, he whispered, "If I called out, I could have ten men in here who would have you instantly in irons." 

Chabouillet stared down into that enraged, white-lipped face with great satisfaction. "Hardly. All your shout would do would be to summon little Nicolas, and I will take great pleasure in fucking him against this desk when I am done with you."

Gisquet gave a frustrated sound between his teeth, and made a futile, Herculean effort to buck Chabouillet off him with his flanks as a stallion would, which was when Chabouillet discovered his Prefect was himself not unmoved by their situation; that between his thighs he was sporting an erection that rivalled Chabouillet's own. 

Chuckling mercilessly, Chabouillet tightened his grasp a half-inch further, and then lowered his guard hand to the front of the Prefect's breeches. 

"How dare you," Gisquet panted as Chabouillet unfastened the satin breeches and took his straining, red-angry prick in hand. "Unhand me. It is hardly your place to demand recompense."

"Oh, but I believe it is," Chabouillet said, beginning to stroke, grinning at the Prefect's gasp of arousal. "When I released Javert to your service I expected respect. How could you have thought I would accept this insult?"

"It was not disrespect," panted Gisquet. "André, do you hear me, I did not intend to insult you. I -- what are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" Chabouillet enquired, as he released Gisquet's engorged prick and took hold of the man by the hair. Gisquet cried out as Chabouillet changed his grip upon him to heave him around and sling him face-first across his desk. Documents went flying, the seal of office was knocked over, and Gisquet's empty glass smashed to the polished floor.

"Calm yourself, or you will summon the boy," Chabouillet said, but his Prefect continued to struggle and swear between his teeth as Chabouillet pulled Gisquet's cravat loose and used the sweaty silken length to bind his arms behind him.

When Gisquet was well and truly secured, Chabouillet paused to survey his neat handiwork and the pleasing picture of the Prefect trussed upon his own desk, helpless beside official papers and despatches of government, breeches around his shapely calves. The moonlight slid across the naked curve of his muscular arse and over the framed silver miniature of the Prime Minister that rested on the desk in pride of place. 

Chabouillet made quick work of his own clothes one-handed, holding Gisquet in place with his other hand, the man continuing to protest even when pressed against the lacquered surface.

"You cannot hold me responsible, you idiot. You know how many men I have to command, you know how I need to ensure the safety of all Paris --"

"In the way you could not ensure Périer's?" Chabouillet enquired. He spat into his hand, took hold of his own cock and, with one powerful movement, sheathed himself upon the fiercely resisting Prefect of Police. 

Gisquet swore at the violation; Chabouillet was not a small man, and he had not troubled to avail himself of the oil which Gisquet kept in the far drawer of the desk, together with a loaded pistol and the braided whip the Prefect preferred in sex play. The Prefect was most fortunate Chabouillet was not of mind to bind him with that damned whip and leave him trussed in the corridor for the policemen to find.

"So you chose to sacrifice my man because you felt others deserved to sacrifice as you have? Is that it?"

Chabouillet thrust violently, and Gisquet groaned. "André -- for the love of God! -- that was not my intention, I swear it." 

"Do not lie to me. You did not sufficiently esteem Javert, you wanted me to suffer, as you have suffered."

"Damn you," Gisquet panted, as Chabouillet set upon him at a vicious pace. "I will have you punished. You cannot resign from this as easily -- ahh! -- as you resigned from your post."

"Perhaps not," Chabouillet said, smirking. The push of his cock in the Prefect's dry passage was almost painful to him; he could only imagine how agonising it was for Gisquet. And yet, as a man who had learned to serve as well as to be served, there was pleasure for Gisquet as well, smearing itself against the papers underneath his leaking prick, his thighs spreading to welcome Chabouillet despite himself. 

Chabouillet tightened his grip in Gisquet's hair, put his mouth close to the man's ear. "Still, that would be quite a way to go out, no? Ten men to put me in irons, but before that, they would have their way with me. They'd take me as you will never be able to, as you were never man enough to take Périer --"

"-- _Enough_ ," groaned Gisquet. He was sweating, the hair was sticking to his forehead, his shirt had rucked up across the small of his back. "What do you wish me to say? I have suffered, I have told no one how, and indeed, why should anyone else be spared? You left your man with me, and then you left, and who are you -- damn it -- to now complain of the decisions I made?"

Chabouillet paused; this was something to consider when the urgent haze of lust was not compelling him forward. "I served France for forty years, and this office for twenty," he responded. "I have always had the right to interrogate the decisions of my superiors, and to hold my Prefect to account. As I am doing now," he added, rolling his hips, and dragging a moan from Gisquet's throat. 

He ran a hand down Gisquet's perspiring side and found the man's cock again, which strained wetly in his grip. "Are you certain you have had enough?" he enquired.

"Damn you to hell," Gisquet panted, rutting against him. "Do you now wish me to beg? _More._ I need..."

"As M. le Préfet wishes," Chabouillet said, gloatingly, and closed his fingers; he let Gisquet thrust desperately into his fist, while he fell upon Gisquet with everything Dupont had taught him, everything he had learned despite himself from Javert, and from each patron and protégé in between.

As if from very far away, he heard his Prefect's harsh breathing, the choked gasps, and then the drawn-out groan as that lean body went slack in surrender. 

By God, it tasted sweet. Chabouillet opened his mouth to announce his victory, and was surprised to hear himself make overwhelmed moans instead, as he, too, spent himself in a hot rush.

For some reason, he was having some difficulty controlling his limbs. He clasped himself around the man beneath him, and he heard Gisquet make a noise that would not have sounded at all affectionate had it been made by another man. 

Improbably, he heard someone behind them clearing his throat. 

"More brandy, Messieurs?" M. Pinel asked, timorously. 

Chabouillet levered himself to his feet and looked over his shoulder. The young man was holding a decanter in his hand; in the other, he had Chabouillet's own pistol, retrieved from the pocket of Chabouillet's coat and pointed directly at Chabouillet's head.

Chabouillet's cane was by the chair, where he had left it -- too far away to hand.

Chabouillet made himself say, calmly, "I'd be cautious with that, lad. It's on a hair-trigger from seeing action in the last war."

"We've all been trained with police-issued firearms, Monsieur," the slender youth said, blushing self-effacingly, but the barrel of the pistol did not waver.

Beneath Chabouillet there was a great rumbling: the Prefect was laughing, low and amused. 

"Be careful with the spare decanter, too, my boy," he said. "And be so good as to bring the usual water and towels, would you? It seems M. le Secrétaire and I have made rather a mess."

Pinel bowed and withdrew. Chabouillet let out the breath he had been holding, and withdrew as well. He unfastened the knotted silk, and helped Gisquet to his feet.

The Prefect's cheekbones were flushed and his mouth a bitten red, but his voice was as deep and commanding as ever, even when he was saying, archly, "It has been some years, but it seems there are things one does not forget, like how to ride a raging horse. Remind me not to get you angry! Or perhaps to do it more often."

Chabouillet laughed disbelievingly. He felt alarmingly unsteady; now the flood had subsided he felt every moment of his fifty-eight years.

Pinel returned with water and towels, and a missive from the front lines. It seemed the Chanvrerie barricade had indeed been retaken: Inspector Javert himself had witnessed the search of the site and reported no survivors amongst the revolutionaries.

Chabouillet experienced a moment of light-headedness. Javert had not been his first protégé, nor his last, but the one that had stayed with him -- from the morning in that sub-standard hotel in Toulon, when the serious young guard had shown himself an apt pupil, driven by the clawing hunger to rise from the gutter of his birth, to that night in Montreuil-sur-mer, when Chabouillet had realised he had lost his loyal hound to the false mayor, and had similarly lost something of his own self.

Gisquet had the good grace to look relieved. "Make a note of it: the inspector is to be commended for his sterling work," he announced, one eye on Chabouillet, who momentarily found himself unable to speak.

Pinel had also fetched a robe of forest green. Gisquet stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes and attended to his ablutions with the boy’s assistance, and then wrapped the robe around his nakedness. He raised his eyebrows at Chabouillet until he conceded to the water and washcloths.

"Isn't that better," Gisquet pressed, and Chabouillet had to admit that it was.

Pinel carefully cleaned the glass from the floor, and fetched a robe for Chabouillet as well. Garbed in borrowed finery, Chabouillet could not immediately respond to Gisquet's remark of, "So it seems that matters have turned out for the best. I hope you are not still angry with me, André."

Chabouillet considered this as he poured fresh drinks. The Prefect had arrayed himself on the day bed in the far corner of the offices, and after a moment's hesitation, Chabouillet joined him. 

In the moonlight Gisquet's green eyes glittered: Chabouillet could not tell if it was from affection or malice. Gisquet leaned over to take the proferred glass, wincing slightly; Chabouillet would wager that the Prefect would not be able to seat himself for the next week without feeling the pain. 

They touched glasses almost companionably, and Chabouillet decided that a modicum of honesty was the best approach. God knew he had reason to be generous, now that Javert had been discovered safe once more.

"I am still unhappy, Henri," he said. "I expected you to properly safeguard that which was mine and to esteem that which I gave you freely."

He paused to consider one of the last things Gisquet had said in the throes of their coupling. Then he added, "I also would have expected you to summon me, notwithstanding my retirement, if you thought I was needed." 

Gisquet nodded. "That is fair enough. I admit I may not have esteemed Javert sufficiently. He will never be my man, so much as he has been yours." He touched his glass to Chabouillet's again. "And I ought to have summoned you, André. I was just vexed enough that you left me at the time that Casimir did."

This was certainly a disarming confession. Perhaps it was unwise, but Chabouillet could not remain entirely unmoved. The Prefect was still a fairly young man, and could not afford to resign from his post in anticipation of coming troubles; he would have looked to Périer for strategic direction and would have felt bereft in his patron's absence. If Chabouillet were to offer guidance, to remain at Gisquet's side, would they be able to alter the course of history together?

"I accept your apology, if you will accept mine," he said at last. "Duty is one thing, and disrespect another, and I fear I may have mistakenly shown you disrespect."

Gisquet smiled. "It is fortunate for both of us that your disrespect was not displeasing in the end. Perhaps it may not have been such a mistake after all." 

The moonlight fell brightly across the day bed. Chabouillet reached across and traced the line it cast over his Prefect's golden hair. "Perhaps not," he admitted.

Gisquet finished his drink and set the glass on the side table. "You are welcome to stay," he said. "Someone will send word to Marie in the morning, if you like." His mouth crooked upwards. "It is the least you could do, after the punishment you just exacted."

Chabouillet hesitated, and then shrugged. After all Pinel had not returned his pistol or his clothes, and if he woke at the mercy of Gisquet's whip, that would still be a more pleasant awakening than many others he had experienced.

He fetched his cane, and then got back into the bed, and curled himself cautiously beside his Prefect.

  
  
  
  


He ended up sleeping most soundly, and woke in a flood of sunlight. 

He was alone in bed, Gisquet having clearly roused earlier than Chabouillet would have expected. Someone -- Nicolas? Jules? -- had left his pistol and his summer coat together with a clean uniform on the canapé beside the door.

As Chabouillet was dressing, he observed with some satisfaction that Gisquet's table had been cleared of last night's mess, the papers and files once again restored to a semblance of order. 

He also observed that someone had brought in the Prefect's correspondence and arranged it neatly atop the desk. Then he halted: on the top of the pile lay a letter in a hand he recognised. 

_"Note for the Administration"_ , Javert had written, appending the Prefecture's address. The letter's seals were broken, and within, its opening words offered a few observations for the good of the service. 

Chabouillet took the letter up, his heart suddenly hammering, and began to read.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Detailed backstory on André-Joseph Chabouillé (1774 – 1865; Head of 1st Bureau, 1st Division in the Prefecture of Police, 1810 – 1831) is [here](https://firestorm717.dreamwidth.org/3248.html). André's first Prefect would have been [Etienne-Denis Pasquier](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89tienne-Denis_Pasquier) (October 14, 1810 – May 13, 1814).  
> The headcanon on André's Peninsular War exploits in Seville and brother François is borrowed from [this magnum opus](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8767582/chapters/20097778), to which I've added André's first patron: [Pierre-Antoine, comte Dupont de l'Étang](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pierre_Dupont_de_l%27%C3%89tang) (4 July 1765 – 9 March 1840), a rather Domly French general of the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.  
> 


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